


The Sinatra Affair

by TopfSecret



Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Accidental kidnapping, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Genderqueer Character, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Nonbinary Character, Nonverbal Communication, Science Fiction, Time Travel, Trans, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Undercover, identical strangers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24062965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TopfSecret/pseuds/TopfSecret
Summary: Alternate title:A Swingin' Affair!Three friends/partners go back in time to visit the premiere ofOcean's Eleven. It's fun, simple, and free - what could possibly go wrong?
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	1. Just One of Those Things

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to this new installment of Frank Sinatra crack RPFs! I know, I know, I do fill quite the niche. Also, yeah, this is super ambitious (nine whole chapters! Damn!), but I really want to cheer myself (and my fellow Sinatra fans) up in these rather unpleasant times. So, as I continue _Bewigged, Bothered, and Bewildered_ , enjoy this affair!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Implied period-typical racism and transphobia, drinking and alcohol, violence, past and possible future murders and deaths, accidental kidnapping, swearing

"This is way too good to be true, Sammy," Lydia grinned, taking the hand of her best friend and lover, Sam, after a string of pictures with Joey Bishop and Peter Lawford. "I can't believe this worked."

Sam pressed his body to Lydia's, moving his arm to interlock with hers. He shot an approving gaze at the autographs dotting her white suit jacket and let out a long whistle. "Neither do I. We're in a massive stroke of luck!"

"So we are, baby, so we are." Lydia chuckled. It hadn't all gone this smoothly. They had to make sure the venue was desegregated so Sam could come in. And Lydia was apprehensive about her ability to "pass" in 1960, where gender roles and expression had been much more binarist than what she was used to. Sure, Frank was white, and most people saw him as a cis man... but being nonverbal, his help was limited to death glares and his mean right hook, both of which he'd had to use. None of them liked to think about it.

"How 'bout we get some drinks, sit on the guest chairs?" Lydia offered in an attempt to lighten the mood. "I can't take walking on these goddamn heels anymore." She lifted one of her feet, showing off the red marks on her heel.

Sam grimaced; Lydia put her foot back on the floor with a wince.

"Damn," Sammy remarked, shuddering, "Let's. And hopefully we find Frank on the way," he added, making his way out of the red carpet area and into the hallway marked _Concessions_ , "He's gonna cause trouble if we don't watch him."

Lydia laughed, throwing her head back. Frank was the biggest drinker out of the three of them - he wasn't a huge fan of old movies like they were, it was obvious he only came with to 1. enjoy their esteemed company and 2. taste some vintage liquor. "Probably." She flashed a smirk at her friend. "We gotta go fast."

"Roger that, Lyd," Sam grinned.

They took decisive, half-joking strides along the way, falling in step together like they always had in the Academy, counting "hup-two-three four" as if they were still cadets. The three of them had trained together since they were in their early twenties, and graduated together as qualified time travelers. Or "athletic academics", as the trio often called themselves, as per their scientific background and intense physical training.

Their march ended on the snack bar where their friend was waiting, his back against them. He'd already started wearing his snap-brim hat again, not caring about the 1960s etiquette of "take your hat off indoors" - Lydia couldn't help but smile fondly at the sight.

"Frankie, there you are!" Sammy greeted, letting go of her arm to make a sweeping motion with his hands, "We've been looking for you."

"For way too long," Lydia added, grinning from ear to ear, "But your tardiness serves us well, Frank. We got everyone's autographs, except Sinatra's, but we'll find him soon enough."

Frank turned to face them, hot dog in hand. "I'm sorry," he said - not with his hands, but with a low, rough voice that came out of his mouth, "I think you've got the wrong guy."

Sam froze.

Lydia's jaw dropped.

"Shit," Sam swore under his breath, hands slowly going back to his sides, "You're Frank Sinatra."

"In the flesh," the Frank who was not their friend said. "How can I help you?"

He remembered what Lydia just said and pulled out a pen from his pocket. "Could we have your autograph, sir?"

Lydia's eyebrows knitted, face scrunching at his too-smooth request. She jumped to Sam's side and hissed, "Sammy, our friend is missing and you're being a fanboy?"

Sam looked up to face her. "This is a one-in-a-lifetime chance," he said in a low voice, "And besides, our Frank's probably just sitting on a corner and sketching people. Maybe laughing to himself a little."

Lydia stole a glance at Sinatra. The actor was politely looking away, munching on his hot dog.

"Or," she said, her voice tensing, "He could have passed out in a bathroom, depending on how much booze he's gotten."

"I think we would've known if he passed out," Sam argued, "It would've been announced to the entire party."

Lydia hummed, fists clenching around the fabric of her long dress and bunching the soft silk. Even people in the '60s probably knew how to do a party-wide announcement, maybe even call emergency services. But what if…

"He'd send us a distress signal," Sam whispered, no doubt reading her worried expression. "Frank knows how to take care of himself, Lydia." He squeezed her arms, deep brown eyes looking into her hazel ones. "He'll be okay."

Lydia looked at Sinatra again.

The singer swallowed the last bite of his hot dog before looking back with piercing blue eyes.

A sigh escaped the woman; her shoulders sagging. "Okay, Mr Sinatra," she said, turning to the celebrity, "Could you sign my jacket?"

Sam quickly handed him the pen.

"Sure," he smiled, "Who should I give it to?"

"Lydia and Sam," she replied. "Maybe on the back. There's a huge empty space on the center."

"Okay," Sinatra said. "Turn around, please."

Lydia did so. He wrote down his signature in fast, fluid strokes, before muttering, "For Lydia, Sam, and Frank… I wish you three… all the best."

"Awww," Sam cooed, clasping his hands together, "Thank you, Mr Frank."

"No, thank _you_ ," Sinatra's pearly-whites flashed the shorter man a grin. "Thank you for supporting my work. It's good to know I could cheer my fans up."

"You really did," Sam nodded enthusiastically, taking out his notebook and opening it to a new page. "Now if you would, Mr Frank…"

"With pleasure, Mr…"

"Just Sam, please," he said. No need to get into details, they'd probably already screwed the timeline by coming here without the Association's permission in the first place.

"To my dear Sam," Sinatra echoed, felt-tip dancing on the paper, "I wish you… and your friends… the time of your lives. Enjoy the movie." He lifted the marker. "Done."

"Thank you so much, Mr Sinatra," Lydia said hastily, snatching the stationery out of his hand, "Please excuse us. We need to find our friend."

"No problem at all," the singer replied. Then, concern seeped into his voice. "I hope you find him soon."

"Thanks a bunch," Sam added, shaking his hand vigorously before Lydia dragged him away, "See you around, Mr Frank!"

Sinatra smiled a million dollar smile until the duo were out of sight.

* * *

"That was too weird," Sam muttered, as he looked for his friend in the fifth men's restroom today. Frank was - in 1960s terms - neither a fellow nor a broad, but he tended to "suck it up" when gender-neutral restrooms weren't available. So, since he couldn't be found outside, chances were he was in the one of the "binary" stalls.

"I knew they looked alike," Sam continued, "but this is on a whole 'nother level." He didn't see their Frank among the rows and rows of urinals, so he pushed open the stalls one by one, hoping to find his best friend and partner, preferably conscious and sober. "Shoot, Lyd, what if someone thought our Frank was Sinatra? That'd be so weird."

Lydia's voice - in the form of halfhearted laughter - came through his earpiece, echoing with the reverb from the women's restroom. _"Isn't 'weird' our specialty, Sammich?"_ she asked. In the background, Sam heard the creaking of manual doors - she was doing the same thing as him. _"Remember when we stopped my mom from starting a world war?"_

Sam groaned. That mission had been a mess, and he knew - even Lydia, who had no lost love for her mother, regretted what had to be done to her. "Don't remind me."

 _"I'm not going to,"_ his partner said acidly. _"Anyway, Frank's not here."_

Sam pushed the last stall door open to reveal a lone toilet. "Fuck."

_"What?"_

"He's not here either."

* * *

Frank, time traveler extraordinaire, had just been tasting the exquisite selection of booze on the table. Minding his own business, as famous people, their fans, and assorted people milled about in the gala. But he supposed 1960s alcohol was stronger than the one in his own time, because he felt woozy as soon as he’d downed the second glass… and there was noise. A lot of crashes. Blow after blow hit his body, knocking the air out of him… as if the booze hadn’t KO’d him enough!

He wished things couldn't get any worse after that, but of course, like every time he went through time, it did. When he woke up, he found himself restrained on a weird-feeling seat, eyes fluttering open to an obnoxiously orange room with tiny lights on top. He tried to reach out for his distress beacon, but he realized in dismay that his bracelet was gone. And so was his wristwatch, his earpiece, and his hat - no wonder his head felt breezy! He thankfully still felt the weight of his phone in his inner pocket, but… stars! How unlucky was he?

Conditioned air ran through his hair, so hard it probably blew away all the products he put on there. He grimaced. Not just at his ruined hairdo, but also at the thought of what the Association would do to him for his complacency. To his best friends and partners. He would never forgive himself if he'd gotten their time-travel license revoked - or worse.

But first, environment check. At least he wasn't fully restrained - it was more like a seat belt tying him up. He had ample space for his legs, and enough empty room for his hands/arms to sign. ( _Negotiation!_ he thought wryly.)

His notebook, however, was gone, probably fell when he was transported - _K_ _idnapped?!_ a part of his mind shrieked, but Frank clamped it down. He retorted: Why would kidnappers put him in this… weird room that looked like an airplane cockpit? A luxurious, huge cockpit with a… piano? A bar? And orange walls? The windows were oval and dark - still nighttime then, he wasn't out for a whole day, but the air pressure was… off. Was he in a private jet? Was he _flying?!_

But before he could investigate that further, he should do a self-check, and what he termed "brain reset". Just so his anxieties didn't take over. The last time he was hitchhiking on someone's private aircraft, it was the mission that got people to start calling him "the Silent Killer".

 _Deep breaths, Frank._ His body was sore, his mouth felt weird, and so did his throat. Had he thrown up? _What_ had he thrown up?

He tried to break through the haze in his mind, sifting through the potent, cloying fog of ‘60s liquor to try to retrace his steps. He hadn’t drunken that much, had he? Had he been poisoned? But why?

And… and even if he _had_ been poisoned, this couldn't be a kidnapping! Not because his seat was too comfortable, or because this room was too posh to be owned by people who would need ransom. But it was because of these factors:

  1. Who would kidnap _him_ of all people? And why?
  2. Why would a mugger-slash-kidnapper take his earpiece? To listen in on their entire conversation in the _Ocean's Eleven_ premiere?
  3. If so, this probably _was_ the Association saving him from being mugged and kidnapped, and he had been busted for illegally time-traveling for fun (and jeopardizing his own safety during that). _Perfect_.



But at least they'd had a plan in case this scenario happened.

Frank took a deep breath and braced himself. He wouldn't let Sammy and Lydia take the blame, just like the others if they had been the one(s) caught instead. He'd say it was his idea. He wasn't careful enough, wasn't alert enough, and they were wrong to reinstate him for duty after the… incident… that had left him unable to speak.

"You okay, Frank?" A voice broke through the muddied thoughts in his head. "Your family's worried sick about you."

 _They called me "Frank",_ he thought, his body tensing. _Not "Agent", not my last name._ He blinked, slowly, to adjust his sight, wondering which of his fellow senior agents was sent here to get him off-guard. He clenched his fists too, for good measure. He'd make them regret bringing him here, make him pay for bringing up his family as if they were some trivial aside. If the Association did anything to his partners…

But the person greeting him wasn't one of his colleagues. They were a large, imposing person in a suit, sitting with legs spread apart and hands on their thighs, their round face twisted in worry. The wire of an old-fashioned earpiece dangled above their shoulder - looks like a bodyguard. Behind them is a short, slim person with a white coat and stethoscope, a suitcase on the floor by their side. (No doubt filled with medical supplies.) So he _had_ passed out, and these people, for some reason, helped him. And put him on what seemed to be their employer's private jet.

_But if this isn't a kidnapping, why is this jet flying?!_

He raised his hands tentatively, mostly to shut up that part of his mind. He shot back, _I can get past these people and hijack the plans later, you chronic worrier._ "Who are you?"

"You want some water, Frank?" the bodyguard asked. "That drink did a number on you." They paused thoughtfully. "We’ll find out who spiked it, no need to worry."

A long sigh escaped him at this (although, in the back of his mind, that part of him began screaming as if he hadn't been poisoned before). He wanted to scream _What part of "who are you?" looks like "I want a drink"?,_ but that'd be rude, so...

"That would be nice, thank you," Frank said instead, enunciating each gesture like he was teaching a Level 1 Sign class. "But I said, 'who are you?'"

"Is that sign language?" the doctor behind the bodyguard asked. "I didn't know you understand ASL, Mr Sinatra."

Frank blanched. They definitely had no plan for _this_ scenario.


	2. Ring-a-Ding-Ding!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia and Sam find out where Frank is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I updated "Bewigged" today but I don't care zjsnfjgsl
> 
> Enjoy this tale of ~~three~~ four disasters in human form!

Lydia and Sam exited the bathrooms in a rush, skidding to a halt almost in unison.

"He's gone," Sam breathed out between his thundering heartbeats, "Frankie's gone. We have to track his beacon."

"-Track his beacon," Lydia said, her syllables almost matching with his. Their gazes met. "I was just going to say that."

The two mentally mapped the venue when she realized one thing: "I think the bathroom's safer."

Before Sam even agreed, Lydia made a beeline to the nearest empty stall, pointedly ignoring the women milling about and doing their makeup. Locked the stall door. Put down the seat cover. Sit on said cover. Take out her phone, find Frank's little blue dot… 

No blue dot in their immediate surroundings. Not at Concessions, not in the red carpet area… she zoomed out of the building’s close-up view, scoping the gates and parking lots. But there was no sign of Frank anywhere. No satellite to locate him. Sweat started to bead the side of her forehead and coat the back of her neck. The scalp under her wig started to itch more, but she resisted the urge to scratch it. She had to tell Sam, use their custom communications system-

> **_Lyd Zeppelin:_ ** _Frank's gone out of range._
> 
> **_Grilled Cheese Sammich:_ ** _:(_
> 
> **_Grilled Cheese Sammich:_ ** _yeah. time to get out and look manually._

Panic rose inside her, filling her veins with adrenaline and her ears with bloodrush. She pocketed her phone; shot up to her feet. Flushed the toilet. Uncovered the seat. Dashed to the sink, washed her hands, left so quickly she almost knocked Sam over.

"Shit, Lydia," Sam muttered. He made his way across to the next hallway, Lydia following a step behind. "Where do we go now?"

He paused, index raised to her face. "No, don't answer that…"

"Wasn't going to, Sammy," Lydia said affably, patting her partner on the shoulder. She knew him well. Her first suggestion would be to ask people about Frank and her second would be to reenact their searching mission. But she knew he'd shoot it down, because they couldn't make a fuss and because it would take too long, respectively. And both were laughably inefficient.

Her third suggestion probably would've been the worst of them all, because it involved the Association-

"Lyd, you go directly to the front gate," Sam commanded, "Ask the guards about Frank, I'll go to the back. If it doesn't work, we go find a security cam-" When he realized what he was saying, he looked up at Lydia, eyes wide with horror.

"Yep," Lydia confirmed, nodding gravely, "CCTVs weren’t a thing yet."

"Son of a gun," Sam swore under his breath. He recovered quickly, though, a fire burning in his eyes. "Let's just go ask security."

Lydia didn't need to be told twice.

* * *

The same flame burned inside Lydia’s gut. Stares of the party-goers singed her back, but she ignored it, her strides as wide as her dress would allow. She knew where to go. She put one feet in front of another with single-minded determination, because. As mushy as she felt to admit it, she loved Frank and she didn’t want him to get hurt, damn it.

“Ms Lydia! Wait up!”

She whirled around to see a familiar figure running after her. His hat was askew and his suit jacket flapped like a cape until he stopped, skinny legs stepping an almost cartoonish brake before her.

“Mr Sinatra,” Lydia replied, looking down to the man, who was worriedly fixing his suit’s button and his hat. When he met her gaze, his fedora was tilted to the right, a rakish angle befitting of his smug hands-in-pocket pose. His face, though, showed nothing of the calm in his stance. His temples were beaded with sweat, his lips were pursed so tightly…

Reminded her too much of her Frank. He never opened his mouth unless it was strictly necessary, and since he’d lost his voice a year ago, he barely even _smiled_ …

“Ms Lydia,” Sinatra’s voice, nothing like her missing partner’s old one, broke her train of thoughts. It was tight, it was fast, it was like he was holding back the urge to shout at someone. “Did you find your friend?”

Lydia’s heart skipped a beat. Her breath hitched, frozen at the blue eyes that were so familiar and yet so strange- no. Focus. She kept reminding Sam to focus so why was she failing? _Breathe, Markov._

“I haven’t found him,” she said at length. “Did you?” She hoped he did. If he did… she hoped Frank was okay, and he was waiting somewhere, maybe with Sam or something…

“No,” Sinatra replied. He then fished into his inner jacket-pocket to show her a rectangular object she knew all too well. “But I found this thing. Cover says it belongs to a ‘Frank Brimstein’.”

“Frank’s sketchbook,” Lydia breathed out. She accepted the book handed to her, and oh my god it was still pristine. No sign of tears, and the inside was still good - his last sketch was of Sammy Davis, Jr. grinning. Frank was improving, she couldn’t help but think. The shading was better, he didn’t look like he- stop, stop. She looked back at Sinatra and pocketed the book in her own jacket. “Where’d you find it?”

“On the floor, eastern exit,” the singer said, “That’s where my ride was parked.”

“Your car, sir?” If Sinatra knew his own license plate, this could go down from “impossible” to just “tricky”.

“Plane,” he corrected. “Anyway, my bodyguard is nowhere to be seen. I’m pretty sure he took your friend.”

“Wait a minute,” Lydia said, eyebrows knitted. “So you went in your private jet? And you think my Frank is in there?”

“That’s a yes for both,” Sinatra smirked. “Let’s find a payphone and-”

“No. We can’t make a fuss.”

Sinatra’s eyes narrowed, but the lopsided, easy grin stayed.

“Why not?” he asked. “This ain’t a fuss, Ms Lydia. It’s just an honest mistake, easy to fix.”

“No, we can't call anyone,” Lydia repeated, more firmly now, “I’ll ask Sam first. He knows how to keep things quiet.”

His smile faded even more, just slightly. Enough for Lydia to know he disagreed. She didn't have it in herself to care - she walked towards the back of the venue as quickly as possible, Sam her only aim.

"Where even is he?" Sinatra asked, his voice coming from just behind her. "If you don't want publicity, I'll make sure you won't get any. You'll both be okay. And I can guarantee you, Ms Lydia, my employees won't hurt your friend."

Lydia was about to open her mouth when her phone vibrated inside her chest pocket. "Fuck," she muttered under her breath, "I can't deal with this."

"There's no need to be rude," Sinatra snapped. His grip caught her arm. _Dear god, does he ever stop talking? He's not this annoying in his movies._ "I'm offering you-"

Lydia halted, turning around to shoot him a laser beam of a glare. He pulled his hand back like it burned. "I'm not talking to you.""

"Then who-"

The phone vibrated again - loud enough for them both to hear. _Why didn't I put it on silent?_

Sinatra jumped, shoulders rising like the fur of a shocked cat. "What's that sound?!”

“Promise me you won’t tell a soul."

The singer looked like he was about to say ‘what’s the big deal?'; he conceded anyway.

“Okay, let’s get somewhere quiet,” Lydia whispered, taking his hand, “This is top secret.”

The set of Sinatra's jaw went rigid at her touch. “If you’re FBI, I’m not talking without my lawyer.”

“I’m not,” she hissed. Mentally, though, her eyes had rolled to the inside of her skull. “It’s just dangerous if word of this gets out.”

"Alright. Show me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave me a comment, hope you all have a lovely day, and take care! :D
> 
> TopfSecret

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is a _Tintin_ reference. I'm a huge fan of that series~
> 
> Feel free to tell me your thoughts! ;D Also, take care <3


End file.
